


Every Little Word I Say

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, But it's me so it ends in comfort, Christmas Isn't Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Misunderstandings, Post-Chinatown, Self-Loathing, accidental love confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: Finally, he looks up, fully prepared to make another dry comment, and freezes.Silent tears stream down her face. Her mouth opens and closes, almost of its own accord. She may be trying to say something, but no sound is coming out, save for desperate, uneven breaths.





	Every Little Word I Say

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Broken Arrows" by Daughtry. 
> 
> This was written in response to a prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user: "Shouldn't you be with him?" I couldn't picture Flynn saying that out of hurt or anger, so I tried to go the more direct route. Hopefully it works, so let me know what you think? 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas.

It isn't bitterness. 

He knows, has always known, that he doesn't stand a chance at holding Lucy Preston's heart, the way she has long held his. It has always been Wyatt, and he knows this, no matter what he feels. (But he loves her, would do anything for her if she asked, and he doesn't know how to stop.) He may have forgotten, briefly, when she was cradled in his arms, forehead pressed against his, clinging to him like she needed him. (As if Lucy Preston needs anyone.) 

But he knows. 

So it isn't bitterness. 

But the twisting in his gut at the memory of Lucy sitting beside Wyatt, the two of them lost in a world all their own, is far from pleasant. She didn't even notice him, and maybe it shouldn't, but it aches. All this time he's been there for her, and she turns to Wyatt in the end. (He isn't angry at her. Could never blame her for what she feels. No, his anger is aimed solely at himself, for ever believing, even for a second, that he could mean to her what she means to him.) 

Her future self, showing up with Wyatt by her side, is just the icing on a truly pitiful cake. 

Rufus is alive now, saved through a time loophole Flynn doesn't fully understand, and he's surprised by how relieved he is. Not just for Lucy's sake; apparently Rufus has actually started to grow on him. (His best option for a friend outside of Lucy in this dump, and it's a man who loathes him for trying to have him killed. He made his bed, he knows that, and he deserves every bit of this. Doesn’t make it hurt any less.) 

At least he can finally sleep. 

Or he could, if his arm didn't hurt so much. 

And his head. 

And his heart. 

(He doesn't regret holding her. Maybe he should, for more reasons than one, but he can't. For just a split second, he was able to take some of her pain onto him, and that will always be worth it to him. But now his shoulder aches, a constant reminder that he shouldn't have been supporting another human being while shot in the arm.) 

So he sits, and he reads, and he tells himself it will all be better in the morning. 

A soft knock on his door startles him, and he hesitates. Considers. He knows that knock, as well as he knows himself, but she hasn't bothered since that first night. She always waltzes into his room as if she owns the place, so why is she knocking now? 

“Come in,” he says finally, because it's her, and he's long forgotten how to tell her no. 

After a pause, she steps inside, and his stomach turns. Her bruises are only getting worse. (He has half a mind to steal the Lifeboat, track Emma down, and slit her throat. Killing her would not stop Rittenhouse, but at least Lucy would be safer.) 

“Hey.” Her voice is hoarse, and her eyes are rimmed red. She seems lighter than before, probably because of Rufus's return, but it's clear that the events of the past two days are weighing on her mind and heart. 

With a gesture to his bed, he settles back in his seat, setting the book aside. She smiles, tightly, and crawls up on top of his covers. Looks at him expectantly. She seems to be waiting for something, but he cannot for the life of him figure out what. He has no idea why she is here, why she would be seeking him out instead of celebrating with the others or sleeping the pain away. 

Awkwardness descends on them, almost suffocating. It's supposed to be easy with them. Talking, at least, they have always been able to do. Even on opposite sides, they've been able to speak their minds without restraint. 

Apparently, she has no plans to start this conversation, so he will have to guess what she wants. He clears his throat. “Wyatt’s room is down the hall,” he points out. “Shouldn't you be with him?” He tries to keep any pain out of his voice. This isn't anger or jealousy. Just a simple question: Why is she with him, when it's obviously not what she wants?

She blinks once, slowly, absorbing the words. “Seriously?” Her voice cracks, hurt slipping through, but he can't for the life of him figure out why. Maybe she feels guilty, leaving him alone after a day like this. That would be like her, wouldn't it? Always putting others first, never thinking of herself. Well, the last thing he wants if for her to feel obligated.

Feigning a careless smile, he shrugs. “Don't get me wrong, I always love your company, but I was planning to catch up on my reading, and now that Wyatt's single…” He trails off, letting her fill in the blanks. “Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.” With that, he picks up his book once more, searching for his place. He can't handle that pity he knows he'll see if he looks up at her. Not right now. 

Silence. 

For a long time, she doesn't say anything, and he'd almost think she’s gone, but the door squeaks; when she leaves, he'll hear. 

The stillness is too much, and he flips to the next page, not even entirely sure of what he's read. What's taking her so long? He let her go, released her of any responsibility to stay by his side, so why is she still here? 

Finally, he looks up, fully prepared to make another dry comment, and freezes. 

Silent tears stream down her face. Her mouth opens and closes, almost of its own accord. She may be trying to say something, but no sound is coming out, save for desperate, uneven breaths. 

_ No. _

This was supposed to help her. To be kind. Selfless. But he's messed that up somehow. He hurt her, again, after he promised himself that he would never _ ever  _ make that mistake again. The day he was released from prison, he left every hint of bitterness behind. He's supposed to be getting it right now. 

She's crying.  Because of him.

He can't breathe. 

The book falls carelessly to the ground, as he jumps to his feet. His shoulder protests the sudden, jerky movement, but he could honestly care less. “Lucy…” He murmurs, taking an uncertain step toward her. She flinches back, shaking her head frantically. 

_ “No.” _ A single syllable, thick with so much hurt and pain, he nearly shatters. “No. You don't-” She wipes frantically at her eyes, a hint of fire creeping back into her. (Aimed at him. And it burns, it does, but he'll take it, every ounce of it, without hesitation. He'd rather her be angry than in pain any day.) “You don't get to just-no.” A pause, as she struggles to catch her breath. 

“I don't understand,” he admits after a moment. He'll do anything to make things right, as long as she'll tell him what he did wrong. 

“Seriously?” She asks again. He doesn't know what to say, only nods, because yes, he's quite serious. Her mouth moves slowly, and for a moment, it seems like she's going to just storm out; her eyes dart to the door, then back to him, debating. “You think-after the day I've had-the day  _ we've  _ had-” She swallows hard. Coughs once. Tries again. “Do you really think I want to deal with this right now?” 

“Deal with what?” It's all he can think to ask. 

She scoffs. “This….” A vague wave of her hands. “Jealous… Macho, alpha male nonsense. You know, where you and Wyatt fight over me like I'm some kind of prize? Ringing any bells?” 

Does she really think that little of him? That he would-especially when she just lost her mother? “Lucy,” he breathes, a bit incredulous, “that's not what I'm-” 

“Save it,” she snaps. “Just save it.” With that, she hops off his bed, pushing past him toward the door. 

Something deep within him breaks. If she walks out that door, he realizes, he's lost her forever. In every possible way. 

“Wait. Please, just wait!” 

To his surprise, she turns back immediately, crossing her arms. “What?” 

Honesty it is, then. Full honesty, because she deserves no less. He takes a tentative step toward her, and she tracks the movement sharply, but doesn't pull away. 

“Believe me, I know I have no right to be jealous. That's not what it was.” Confusion flickers in her eyes, and he continues, feeling a little more steady. “I saw you with Wyatt. Earlier, before the second Lifeboat arrived.” She pales slightly, confirming his hunch that they were having more than a friendly chat. “And then you and Scruffy show up from the future, and… Well, I didn't see me anywhere.” He shrugs. “It reminded me that… No matter how much I hate Wyatt, you've always loved him, and Lucy…” For this, he meets her eyes, holds her gaze. “I just want you to be happy.” 

He can practically see the gears turning in her head as she processes. “But then, why shut me out?” 

“I-” Guilt twists inside of him. “I didn't want you to feel like you owed me something. It's not your fault what I feel for you, and I never wanted you to think-” 

“Wait, what?” She wipes away a few stray tears. “What do you mean, what you feel for me?” 

She knows.

She has to know. (Right? She just called him on the way he acts toward Wyatt, said he fights for her like a prize. And he tries not to, he knows it isn't what she deserves, but it has happened, and she just said she knows.) So why ask? What’s the point of making him say it now? 

His throat feels too dry, suddenly. The eye contact is too much, and he looks away, gaze settling on the dusty floor. “Lucy, I…” He can’t tell her. Can’t put that on her now, on top of everything else that she’s dealing with. It’s the same reason he couldn’t tell her in Chinatown, the same reason he couldn’t tell her what he wanted that day in San Antonio. His feelings are his problem; she has enough to deal with. 

(But again, doesn’t she _ know? _ ) 

It’s a fair question, and for lack of something better to say, he asks it. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

“I-” She tugs at the hem of her sweater, picking at non-existent lint. “I know you feel… Possessive of me. Because of the journal. But-” 

Possessive? His stomach churns, and he shakes his head, not even giving her a chance to finish. (And granted, maybe in the beginning, he felt that way. A little. She was meant to be his partner, to help him stop Rittenhouse, the way the journal said. The way she fought it scared him. But he’s long given up the notion that he has any sort of claim on her, that she is-in any way-his. If anything, he is hers, but that is a different matter entirely.) 

“No.” He longs to reach for her, to hold her close and assure her, but until she understands, he knows he can’t. (Even then, there are no guarantees.) “Not possessive. And not because of the journal.”

Curiosity and impatience war in her eyes. “Then what?”

A thousand lies form and die on his lips. He can’t lie to her-he  _ can’t- _ no matter how much he probably should, in this moment. 

“Lucy,” he breathes, because he doesn’t quite know how to say anything else. “Lucy, I…”  _ Love you. Love you. Love you.  _ But now is not the time, not with everything that has happened to her today. She’s come to him for a reason. For support. He will not give her another burden to carry instead. So he steps forward, head bowed slightly. “I care about you,” he says instead, because that’s open to interpretation. There are many different ways to care. “And when you’re around me, I feel… A little less alone in the world.” 

Even this might be too much; her mouth falls open slightly, and she stares at him, wide-eyed. 

_ Please don’t let it be too much.  _

She walks back to his bed, reclaiming her place atop the covers, and while he’s relieved she isn’t fleeing, he has no idea what to expect. For a long moment, she studies her hands, looking for untold answers in the scars of her skin. (His fault, all his fault, she was never a soldier, but he forced her to become one.) Finally, she speaks. 

“Wyatt blames himself, for what happened to Rufus.” Her words come slowly, as if she’s testing each one before she says it. “And I should be with him. I should be telling him it’s okay, that it isn’t his fault, that I still… Love him.” 

Each syllable twists his heart a little more, but he forces a smile, about to reassure her once more that she’s free to go, when-

“But I don’t want to.” 

Silence.

His throat is impossibly tight, and he cannot think, cannot begin to process her words. So he just waits, eyes fixed on her, hoping for something he cannot articulate. 

“Everything hurts right now. Everything. And you… Make it hurt less. So I came here.”

And then he made her cry. 

Unable to hold back any longer, he reaches for her, and when she doesn’t pull away, the relief is so strong, his legs nearly give out. He squeezes his shoulders gently, not quite brave enough to gather her into his arms once more. “Oh, Lucy,” he murmurs, and she closes her eyes tightly, but a rogue tear escapes. His fingers itch to brush it away. “I’m sorry.” It’s woefully inadequate, but he knows he needs to say it. “You’re always welcome here. Always.” 

For half a second, she’s frozen in place, tense under his hands. But then she slides off the bed, catching his shirt when he automatically steps back to give her room. She buries her face in his chest, and he wraps his arms tightly around her, cradling the back of her head, shielding her from the world as much as possible. At some point, tears wet his shirt, but she never makes a sound. 

He can’t help but wonder when she learned to cry silently.

“Volim te,” he whispers against her hair, because she will not understand. (But if he does not tell her he loves her, his heart may burst with the pressure of the words.) 

Except….She stills, and he knows in an instant that he has miscalculated. Ruined everything, once again. How she knows what he meant, he is not sure, but she’s utterly frozen against him. Ready to pull away and apologize in every language he knows, he’s stunned when she suddenly relaxes. Snuggles closer. “Oh.” Her voice is very quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He doesn’t dare ask what she means by that.

“Yeah.” She’s not crying anymore. At the very least, she doesn’t seem to be upset now, which means-at last-he’s done what she came here for. “Okay.”

And part of him wants to push, but he already knows he won’t, won’t add that kind of pressure to her. So he tilts his head slightly, pressing a feather-light kiss to the top of her hair, and holds her a little closer.

“Okay.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
